


(you don't know) I'm a Rager

by KateMonster



Category: Bandom, Black Cards, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Killjoys, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-04
Updated: 2011-11-04
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:33:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateMonster/pseuds/KateMonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bebe gets along. She slicks her hair down and she doesn’t smile. She does her job, dates and times and answering the phone and she turns her face away when Korse sweeps through the office, because he doesn’t need an appointment.</p><p>She hates it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(you don't know) I'm a Rager

**Author's Note:**

> Fic From a Hat fic! I pulled "Bebe" and "Mikey", and then this happened, IDK.

Bebe gets along. She slicks her hair down and she doesn’t smile. She does her job, dates and times and answering the phone and she turns her face away when Korse sweeps through the office, because he doesn’t need an appointment.

She hates it.

The sun doesn’t go down on Battery City, not really. But the lights dim, the office empties out and she walks home in the gloom, already planning what she’s going to wear. Most nights there’s a message on her door with an address or a name or both, because these things can’t be planned too far in advance. Sometimes it’s even a paper note, Pete’s nearly-illegible scrawl a hundred times more secure than the iWindow her company landlord installed. You never know who’s looking in.

Tonight it’s just a time, on a burrito wrapper. She blinks, mentally revises her outfit, because you can’t get real Mexican food in the city, and if he’s picking her up she’ll need leathers.

She’s right, and Pete turns up late on his tattered old Ninja with an extra helmet. He pulls his off and grins at her, wide and bright in the shadow.

“Hustle, Baby Bee,” he laughs too loudly and shifts his weight when she clambers on the back. She digs her knee into his thigh and then they’re gone.

~

Bebe knows the place when they get there, from the photos that Korse brought in. She wasn’t supposed to see, but she can’t help looking sometimes. It’s a warehouse, just behind the tunnels, with one wall that backs right up to the dome. The loading dock door is still standing open, a massive dent in the center, the padlock and chain lying sadly in the dirt.

“This is not a good idea, Pete.”

“No place safer, Beebs. It’s just a little party,” he says and tugs her hair as it tumbles out of her helmet. It’s a wreck, tangled and matted from the helmet and the wind, but she doesn’t fix it. She just unzips, tugging at her sleeves and she can’t help smiling as Pete does the same, his tattoos flashing as he sheds his jacket. She laughs right out loud then, because he’s wearing lime and blaze orange under his black leathers, and she sparkles more in her acid-green sequins, but they match.

“You’re psychic,” she yelps, hopping up for a staggering, unsteady piggy-back through the door. Pete drops her as soon as they’re inside, mostly because he’s laughing too hard. There’s a single work lamp resting crooked on the floor, throwing all its light onto the opposite wall. Halfway up the wall --and for a minute Bebe thinks he’s hanging there like Spiderman, white arms and red hair flashing-- somebody’s spray-painting _S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W wuz here!_ in letters ten feet tall. He’s halfway through the neon pink lightning bolt that forms the top of the exclamation point.

“Party!” Pete calls, and there’s a fire-engine flash on the catwalk as the guy turns and waves. “Where’s Kobra?”

“Unloading the sleigh, my good little boy and girl,” Party --wait, _Party Poison?_ Shit.-- yells back. “Got the shit you wanted.”

“Fuck!” Pete exclaims, and then he takes off for parts unknown and unlit, searching the corners of the massive room, where the single spotlight in the center doesn’t reach. Party Poison (shit, no, really?) waves at her, and Bebe waves back.

“You must be Bee,” he calls down, and then he laughs. “I’m Party.”

“I know who you are,” she says before she can stop herself, but then there’s the heavy thump of a really big circuit being thrown.

“Hey,” she hears, reverb heavy, as she turns to see ‘Trick bent over a generator and holding a mic to his mouth. “Look what these fuckers brought us, Beebs.”

There are three speakers, decent sized and one massive woof, all covered in colored lights, a turntable behind them, and Pete, standing there with his stupid monkey arms around a blond guy in a tight red jacket.

“Get your ass up here, Rex,” Pete calls. “Come meet Kobra.”

The stage is made of industrial metal grating, welded together and a little rickety, but once she gets up the steps and behind the turntable, she can see the whole room. It’s empty now, but somebody’s already standing by the door with his arms crossed, and there’s a dark-haired kid in yellow breaking glow sticks open next to him. It’ll fill up soon, young bodies moving and sweating, a sick bass beat. Bebe smiles.

And then she looks down. She takes one look at the four boxes of records --real records!-- stacked back there, the new Mad Gear and a Kraftwerk piled right on top of ‘Pac, some old funk, all the shit Mister Mad-D spins on WKIL, and she honest-to-fuck _squeals_ , and throws her arms around Kobra too.

“Hi,” she says. “You’re my new favorite.” Pete squawks, kicks at her with one foot in general protest.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t I know it,” Kobra’s lips tip up in the dim light, but his eyes are sparkling. “Everybody loves the kid.”

“Damn right,” Pete says, and then he grins and lets go. “Okay. You ready, Bee?”

“Drop me some beats, B-Rex!” ‘Trick calls up from the floor, and Bebe laughs.

“It’s all for you, Stump,” she says, and reaches for a disc. _DJ B-Rex,_ she thinks. It’s not a Bat City name, never could be. That’s a name for the zones, not her tiny apartment, galley kitchen, laptop isolated from any signal so she can make her own beats without bringing S.C.A.R.E.C.R.O.W. down on herself, or Pete. It’s not her name, but it’s a good one.

Maybe one of these days she’ll use it.


End file.
